


Flying Like A Bird To You Now

by Harp_of_Gold



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Forest Sex, Forgiveness, Knotting, M/M, Reunions, Rough Sex, Tenderness, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 21:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harp_of_Gold/pseuds/Harp_of_Gold
Summary: "He’d betrayed his lover in more ways than he could count; no joyful reunion with the Lord of Trees could be expected. He owed apologies and more to an awful lot of people, but first and foremost to Oromë. That’s where he’d start, and when his beloved had crushed those futile hopes, perhaps he’d be able to move on."Celegorm is re-embodied in Valinor.





	Flying Like A Bird To You Now

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Hozier's song 'Shrike.'
> 
> You can listen to my playlist for this story on [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/73CLKXQNVwNfB3a3Wb9kNj?si=Cut5Z53cR2mRWhrDfY-Hdw) or [youtube](https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLdZzViYFgIN1-6MX_B2u_Hsg4PIIbzPAr)

No one was waiting for him when Celegorm awoke outside the Halls of Mandos. He forced his body up into a crouch, blinking at the bright sunshine. He looked around again, but only confirmed what he’d suspected. Not that he could blame his brothers; the ones who’d gone before him were surely busy enough with their own problems. And it wasn’t like the rest of the family would want to see him. A small part of him had harbored a stubborn hope that _he_…but no. He’d betrayed his lover in more ways than he could count; no joyful reunion with the Lord of Trees could be expected. He owed apologies and more to an awful lot of people, but first and foremost to Oromë. That’s where he’d start, and when his beloved had crushed those futile hopes, perhaps he’d be able to move on.

Celegorm pulled himself unsteadily to his feet and headed for the towering line of oaks and hickory he saw in the distance. The white, peeling bark of sycamore overhead led him to a stream, and he walked along its banks until he spotted a lump of likely stone. Rubbing off some mud, he revealed a fine-grained chert. That would do nicely. He sat under the sycamores and struck off flakes with carefully applied blows until he held a passable knife. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, he continued into the wood. The knife did much more than the plain grey robe he’d been clad in as he left the Halls to quell his sense of nakedness.

Every time he glanced down at his arms he was shocked anew at their smoothness. His blank new body felt like it should belong to someone else. Celegorm already missed the history that had been written there; the scars from childhood mishaps—falling out of trees, cutting himself on tools borrowed from his mother’s workshop. The long gnarled line across his belly where a giant boar had ripped him open, and he’d hovered, ecstatic, on the edge of death while Oromë pieced him back together. The marks of battle, of orc swords and wolves’ teeth. The tattoos he’d earned as a member of Oromë’s Hunt, and the ones he’d added in Beleriand to mark the passing of his father and his dearest friends as he lost them, one by one. Aredhel. Huan. He winced at that thought. All of it was gone now, and Celegorm hardly recognized himself. Maybe that was a good thing. He didn’t like who he’d become by the end. 

Hickory nuts had begun to fall, and Celegorm gathered them up as he wandered, cutting a piece from his robe to carry them. A few late berries still clung to brambles, and he plucked those too. It would be so easy to disappear into this forest and never show his face again. He had everything he needed. Food was abundant; stone and bone would suffice for tools; he could sew clothes of hide and fur and fashion a shelter of branches that would be as welcome a roof to him as any palace. He shook his head. Maybe he could grant himself that peace later. Right now, the people he had wronged deserved better. Deserved justice. And he couldn’t hide from Oromë in his wood. He needed to face him on his own terms. He shouldn’t put it off any longer. He briefly considered whether it was better to rest first, but the thought of spending the night in sleepless regret dissuaded him. The Sun was fading into late afternoon, and he should find the right place for this.

Celegorm chose a massive beech and knelt between its roots. They'd always been Oromë's favorite. His hands were shaking, and he wondered once more if this was really necessary, or if he could wait forever so he didn't have to hear the terrible words that must be coming. But then he'd have to go through life without ever getting to say goodbye. That had been his greatest sorrow in leaving Aman, that in all the horror and frantic activity after the darkness fell and his grandfather was found dead, he'd never managed to slip away and tell Oromë he had to go. Perhaps he would have understood. Now the blood of his kin stained his hands, and there could be no understanding that. Taking his stone blade in hand, he slashed three shallow lines across his upper arm where once he'd proudly worn the inked bands of Oromë’s hunters. He'd always jumped in headfirst. There was no point in pretending to himself he could do otherwise. 

“Lord Oromë, please accept this sacrifice of my blood.” He'd prayed like this often in Beleriand, in the early days, in hope that the offerings of his hunts could somehow bear his words across the sea. “Please hear me. Please grant me a sight of you. Grant me—” _forgiveness,_ he thought, but could not bring himself to say. He searched for more, but he felt Oromë's presence before he found it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His whole being quaked with desperate awe, the response of an animal that knows Death walks on padded feet. Across the hollow Oromë sat on Nahar's back. His antlers filled the sky. Any words Celegorm might have imagined caught in his throat. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Hunter, nor he could move an inch.

“Tyelko.” Oromë murmured his name with surprising gentleness. He leapt down and crossed the hollow to stand before him. Celegorm was shaken to his core; he found himself staring at Oromë's fur-lined boots. He didn't try to rise.

“My lord.”

“What is this? You were never one to kneel to me.”

Celegorm bowed his head lower, his hands planted firmly on the ground.

Oromë sighed. “Why have you sought me?”

“I had to see you one last time. I know you don’t want me now. I don’t deserve to be in your presence. But I needed to tell you I love you, and I will love you forever. And I’m sorry.”

The ragged sound Oromë made had to be disgust. There was nothing else he could possibly feel. But Celegorm felt hands on his head, sliding down to cup his cheeks, to lift his chin, and the Hunter crouched before him, tipping his head up to meet his gaze. Celegorm closed his eyes rather than stare into that raw wildness. 

“My Tyelko. My little hunter. My brave one. I didn’t think you would want me anymore, after what I let you suffer, or I would have come for you. I never stopped wanting you.”

With a sob, Celegorm surged up into his arms and clung to him tightly, enveloped in the familiar scents of musk and pine. In Oromë’s embrace, he felt truly safe and truly alive for the first time in long ages.

“I should have stayed beside you, no matter what the others said,” he murmured in Celegorm’s ear. “I should never have forced you to face Morgoth alone.”

“No. At what cost? You couldn’t defy your king. I never blamed you for that. I only grieved it.” Celegorm pulled back, and at last he met Oromë’s eyes. “I knew you hadn’t abandoned me. Not so long as my arrows flew true and Huan was by my side.” He drew a deep breath and knelt more formally again. Oromë let him. 

“I did abandon you, though. I slew those I should have defended. I betrayed those I should have upheld. I let Finrod go to his death alone, and I took Lúthien prisoner like any servant of Morgoth, and children were left to die in my name. I’m not who you knew. I’m not someone you can be proud of anymore. I let my father’s Oath warp my judgment, and I will regret it until the end of time. I…I didn’t want to come back from the Halls. It seemed like too much, to walk here again, knowing…having to think of all the lives I’d ruined.”

“I’m so glad you found the courage to come.”

Celegorm looked up at him, and a tiny smile curved his lips. “Námo told me there would be a day when I could feel the sun on my face and hear the voice of the wind in the trees and know only joy again, if I was willing to work for it.”

Oromë studied him long in silence, his thumb stroking Celegorm’s cheek. Celegorm leaned into the touch. “I cannot forgive you,” he said at last. Celegorm froze, but Oromë kept speaking. “I cannot, for your crimes are not against me, and only those you have harmed can absolve you of them. You sought to be faithful to me even as the world darkened and narrowed around you. You took lives, but you saved them, too, with every orc and foul beast you struck down, with every haunch of venison you gave to those who were hungrier than you. You were a fierce hunter, and a fierce fighter against the evil one, and for that I am proud of you.”

Celegorm wept at those words, and Oromë held him again as if he would never let go. “You are still mine, if you wish it,” Oromë said.

“More than anything,” he answered. The world seemed to lighten, and all that mattered was Oromë in his arms, restored to him, wanting him still after everything. They moved toward each other as one, and their hungry mouths met with the sharp inexorability of an arrow hitting its mark. Celegorm bit Oromë’s lip and was rewarded with a low growl that sent heat coursing through him and strong hands tangling in his hair. He pressed closer eagerly.

Oromë laughed. “Is this what you want, my hasty one? To be claimed and made mine fully?”

“Of course it is. Take what’s always been yours.” He grinned and nipped at Oromë’s ear, catching him off guard just enough to twist away and come at him from the side, knocking him to the ground. He held him there for a moment, gloating, before Oromë rolled him over and pinned his hands above his head. He bucked his hips, struggling to throw him off, but Oromë had given him his bit of fun, and now he was not playing. Celegorm shivered and his smile grew wider. Oromë’s teeth were at his throat, and Celegorm breathlessly stretched to bare it further, letting his body go slack in the knowledge he would not move again until Oromë willed it.

Oromë nuzzled against his throat, kissing him and sucking bruises into his skin. Celegorm could feel his erection, thick and heavy against his thigh, and before he could squirm loose enough to grind against him, he was flipped around and pulled up onto all fours, Oromë’s powerful arm holding his hips. The flimsy grey fabric he wore was ripped asunder, and Oromë bit down on his shoulder. He cried out as long, sharp teeth broke his skin and blood dripped to the forest soil. He hoped it would scar. He wondered, as Oromë’s cock pressed against his entrance, if his Vala had thought of grease, but quickly decided he didn’t care. It hurt. Oromë was massive, and not gentle, and allowed him scant time to adjust, and Celegorm wouldn’t have had it any other way. Every other consideration gave way to pure feeling as Oromë pounded into him. Celegorm didn’t bother trying to hold back his screams. Oromë knew well enough that he liked it. He shifted a little, and suddenly each thrust punched blinding pleasure through him. Celegorm came and whimpered when Oromë didn’t stop. His fingers bruised Celegorm’s hips as he leaned over him. 

“I’m going to bind you to me if you can take it.”

Celegorm moaned helplessly and nodded. Oromë thrust deep inside him, and he felt his knot swell and fill him. It was overwhelming, far too much to hold inside, stretching him to his limit, and Celegorm cried as Oromë gathered him into his arms, torn between uncertainty that he could endure and craving that it go on forever. He was glad his shapeshifting lover did not always choose this form, and glad too to have it this night. Nothing else could make him feel so thoroughly taken and desired. Oromë murmured sweet nothings in his ear, adjusting him carefully to lie comfortably in his arms without jostling him, and took his cock in hand, stroking him back to hardness. He teased until Celegorm thought he would go mad with want, forgetting how painful being knotted had felt only moments ago. Celegorm pushed back against him, rocking minutely on his cock—anything more would surely tear him apart. He came moaning and gasping over Oromë’s skilled fingers, and Oromë kept stroking him gently until he shuddered through the end of his orgasm. Celegorm dropped into a deep sleep, and the last thing he knew was Oromë’s knot still filling him and the warmth of Oromë’s embrace surrounding him.

He woke with the Sun, sore and deeply satisfied. Oromë had pulled a thick fur over them in the night. Turning in his Vala’s arms, he met his watchful eyes and kissed him softly. “I was almost afraid you’d be gone when I woke. That it had to be a dream.”

“I expect your body doesn’t feel like it was all a dream.” Oromë smiled wryly, and Celegorm smirked. “You won’t have to wake alone again.”

Celegorm’s smile faded. “You know I can’t stay right now, don’t you?”

“Let’s speak of that later. The morning is too lovely to mar with such talk. It has you in it.”

Celegorm fell silent, worrying at his thoughts. “Is this it, then? Is there no…penance you would have of me?”

Oromë’s brows drew together. “I told you, I don’t hold that you’ve wronged me. And if in anything you did, it’s forgiven.”

“But…” Celegorm wasn’t sure how to explain. “_I_ feel that I have proven unworthy, and I would offer you something, however small. If not penance, would you accept my blood and pain as a sacrifice?”

“Ah.” Understanding lit his eyes. “If it is _that_ you would offer…I would never demand it of you, but I will gladly accept it.”

Celegorm lowered his gaze. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean without it.”

Oromë nodded. “Would you have it now?”

“Please.”

“Against the beech, here, then.”

Celegorm took his position against the beech, hands raised and forehead resting on the smooth bark. He could hear Oromë digging through his saddlebags. He concentrated on calming his breath. He didn’t like how quickly his nerves were taking over. A gentle hand touched his back, and Celegorm jumped. Oromë stroked him slowly and firmly like he would a skittish horse.

“I won’t go easy. I don’t think that’s what you need.”

Celegorm shook his head. “No.”

“Call for mercy if you want me to stop.”

“All right. I won’t.”

“All the same.”

“I know.”

Oromë stepped back and struck him. It was the little whip, Celegorm could tell by the feel of it, with many tails and knots along the lengths of leather. It bit into him again and again. Oromë had not lied, and Celegorm felt this new body was all too soft and sensitive—every lash hurt so much more than he expected. He’d had a habit, once, of swearing a blue streak when he was being whipped, but now he bit into his forearm, afraid that if he let any word out, it would be the one to end this pain. A trickle of blood ran down his back, and he tried to distract himself with the thought of how difficult it was to break skin with this particular whip, and how hard Oromë must be going. That was what he’d asked for. He could bear this for him, he had to, he had to…just one more, and he’d cry mercy, and one more after that… The mounting agony ripped cry after cry from him, but he did not shout their signal.

Oromë pressed himself against Celegorm’s throbbing back and put his arms around him. Celegorm flinched before slumping against him. He was shaking.

“My brave little hunter. You’ve done so well. Do you think you can start to forgive yourself now?”

Celegorm hid his face against the beech. In all his discussions with Námo, he didn’t think he’d crossed the idea he might need that. Or perhaps he had, and he hadn’t been able to take it in. Slowly he nodded. He did feel better. Stronger. Readier for what had to come next. He felt Oromë’s mouth on him, kissing his welted back, licking up his blood. He shuddered and arched into the touch.

“You’re so beautiful like this, my love. Bloodied for me and so strong to endure.”

Celegorm smiled. He could guess what was on the Vala’s mind. He turned and grasped an antler, pulled Oromë down to him. He tasted his own blood on his lips, and he bit hard enough to make the Hunter bleed too, their blood mingling in their kiss and driving them both to greater passion. 

Oromë drew back. “I know you’re still hurting from last night. We don’t have to do anything more.”

“I haven’t had you in thousands of years, and you think I’m going to let a sore ass deter me?” 

Oromë laughed, and Celegorm had forgotten how deeply that sound resonated within him. He hoped he would never lose it again. “You can fuck me this time if you want.”

“Nah. Some other time. I want you in me.”

Oromë scooped him into his arms so fast that Celegorm shrieked and laughed as he carried him over to the fur where they’d slept. He settled upon it with his back to the beech and arranged Celegorm in his lap. Celegorm leaned up to kiss him some more, softly, taking time to slip his tongue into his mouth and explore. He felt a slippery finger rub against his entrance, and Oromë carefully worked it inside him, easing him open with the same alert patience with which he could wait all day for an animal to step into range. He hissed in pain when Oromë pulled his fingers out and set his cock to him instead, but Oromë made no move to push inside, just kept kissing him so tenderly Celegorm melted into him. Celegorm took him slowly, inch by inch, moaning at the burn but so happy to be filled again. Oromë's cock pressed against all the right spots as he rode him. There was nothing frantic to them now, rather a leisurely and certain moving together, a gentle rhythm that held all the promise of the quiet forest morning. They couldn't have said who came first, only that pleasure seemed to stretch and hang between them until it enveloped everything in its golden warmth.

“Are you sure you can't stay?” Oromë asked when they stirred from their languor.

Celegorm sighed. “I have so many obligations. People I have to make amends to. My brothers and I decided we'd offer King Olwë seventy years of service each, and if he wants more, he'll have it. Then the same again for Thingol. And I have others I owe apologies. I'm not going to be free for a very long time.”

Oromë cradled his face in his hands and looked at him as if he were inestimably precious. “You have my unfailing support in all of that, and I'll hope to see you whenever I can. And if it all becomes too much…you can run away to me and have a few days’ rest whenever you need it. Any time at all.”

Celegorm layed his head on Oromë’s shoulder. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“But first I want you to come home with me. Let me throw a feast for your return and get you some decent clothes. Take a few weeks to get used to being alive again before you accept the weight of so large a task. Receive my hunters’ marks again if you wish.” He traced the lines Celegorm had cut on his arm. “Could you give me that much?”

“There’s nothing I’d like better.”

“Good.” He wrapped Celegorm in his fur cloak and pulled him to his feet. “There's someone else who'll be very glad to see you.” He whistled, and a gigantic hound came running.

“Huan!” Celegorm held out his arms. Huan barreled into him, knocking him down and licking his face, wagging his tail hard enough to make a breeze. Laughing, Celegorm reached for Oromë's hand and pulled him down with them. He held them both in his arms, and for that moment, everything in his world was right.


End file.
